


A Party on Christmas Eve

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Christmas, Ficlet, Ficlet Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-05 11:49:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 15,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16810009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: A collection of ficlets for December, prompted by MissDavis in her 2018 Advent Ficlet Challenge.John and Sherlock first meet when John moves into 221C Baker Street. Will romance bloom before a party on Christmas eve? (spoiler alert: Yes, it will. Of course it will.)I'm going to try to cram in all our favourite holiday fic tropes here, too. Enjoy!





	1. Holiday Decor

There hadn’t been much to move. His pillow, his army-issue duffel with four changes of clothes and two pairs of shoes, two rucksacks with his shave kit, laptop, a couple of books and brushes for teeth and hair. The flat was comically tiny, but the landlady claimed it had recently been wallpapered and carpeted, even the fireplace cleaned and ready to use, should he wish to. There was one of those narrow beds that passed for a sofa, a low chest of drawers, a table he could sit at to eat or work, and an armchair with a decent reading lamp behind it. One window, facing the street. He’d share the bath and kitchen down the hall with the landlady herself. She made it clear she was not his housekeeper and would not clean up after him.

The door was still standing open as he unpacked one of the rucksacks, lining up his two pairs of shoes beside the bed. A tall blur in his peripheral vision swept past the open door and he heard a deep voice saying, “Mrs Hudson, I need to borrow matches.” There was the squeak of a door opening, then kitchen-rummaging noises, cupboards and drawers. “My lighter’s out of fluid. Mrs Hudson!”

John eased around the doorjamb to look down the hall. The blur had resolved into a tall, wild-haired man in smart trousers and a fine shirt, barefoot and wearing an untied, blue silk dressing gown over his clothes. He flicked a glance John’s way, then back into the drawer he was combing through. Then back at John, for longer. John clasped his hands behind his back.

“I’ve got matches,” he offered.

“Oh,” the man said, and stood straight. “That’s kind of you.”

John tipped his head back toward the open door. “Just moving in. Mrs Hudson said there was another tenant, I suppose that’s you.” He cleared his throat. “John Watson.”

“I’ve a rather pressing need for fire.”

“Sure. Right.” John pivoted, was not sure whether the man would follow, but eventually felt him coming along, at a distance. Inside his single room, he went into his duffel and easily put hands on a small box of wood matches. He made a mental note that they would need replacing as soon as he got out to the shops.

“I also have a rather pressing need for outside opinions. You’ll do.” The man beckoned near-violently with one hand and John found himself following him up the stairs to 221B--a much larger if not necessarily nicer flat than his own. The man skipped one of the steps near the top of the flight; when John hit it, it gave a deep squealching groan. “Giveaway stair,” the man said, absently.

As John stepped through the door from the landing, he was met with a chaotic mess of a flat, perhaps not its usual state (though he had his doubts) as most of what caught his eye as he gazed around the sitting room was an explosion of glinting, glistening, green and gold holiday decorations. Boxes sat open, overflowing with garlands of faux pine, oversized velvet bows in various shades of red, strings of small lights. There were two trees, which John knew by smell were the genuine article, one in front of each of the windows on the Baker Street side, awaiting their tarty Christmas finery.

Two armchairs sat facing off by the fireplace, each loaded up with more decorating material--unidentifiable swaths of fabric, a bucket of bulb-shaped tree ornaments, and impossibly delicate glass icicles laid out side by side on a fluffy bed of white cotton--and the man stood at the mantel, using up John’s matches carelessly, lighting a series of high and low candles, all white, tapers, tea lights, and pillars, all nestled in a staggered row among more pine boughs strung with lights and dressed with green tartan bows of satin.

“I like these because of the mirror,” the handsome man said (for John had decided there was no reason not to notice he was handsome). “But I do wonder if, with party lighting--” He moved to switch off a nearby lamp, turned on a more distant one, flicked off the flourescent over the kitchen table in the adjacent room, “--it’s not a bit of a distraction.”

John, amused and curious prompted, “A distraction from. . .?”

“Well, the trees are the focal point. This table will be cleared of. . .” he waved his hands in the air over what looked like more than a single year’s worth of paperwork and other clutter. “All of this. It will be the h’ors deouvres table. Drinks on this cart.” He rolled a wooden cart, which John had not previously noticed due to its being overflowing with books and laundry, partway across the room. “Try to keep them out of the kitchen but it never works.”

“I think the candles are nice,” John offered. “They make battery-powered ones now, though, that are less of a fire hazard. They flicker and everything. Could pass for the real thing.”

The man looked deeply considerate of the information.

“And you buy those where?” he asked.

John shrugged. “Just. You know. Shops?”

The man pressed his palms together and rested the tips of his forefingers against his chin, gazing at his mantelscape.

“It looks nice, either way. Not distracting,” John said. “When’s the party?”

“Christmas eve.”

“Oh.” John kept control of his smile, in case the man might be self-conscious that John found it funny. “Well, twenty-three days should be time enough to finish all your holiday decor.” He gestured lightly around the room.

“I’ll finish it tonight,” the man said, dismissively, without looking at him. He stretched out his hand and John turned up his palm to catch the offered box of matches. “Thanks for that.”

“Any time.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” the man said, and at last turned his focus on John. Bright blue-eyed focus that made him feel he was being evaluated from the ends of his fringe to the polish on his wingtip brogues. Sherlock offered his hand and John stepped forward to shake it.

“Pleasure to meet you, Mr Holmes.”

“Call me Sherlock.”


	2. Star

It had been so quiet all through 221 Baker Street all morning that John assumed he must be the only one at home. He was working--still--again--on his application for placement in an NHS clinic, not particularly wanting to receive one. He had money enough to get him through to the first of the year, provided he lived in his typically frugal fashion. No one to buy gifts for, no obligatory officemate present-swaps, no real need to make a fuss. Though he was weighing up the possibility of a bottle of Macallan. He’d enjoy a bit with his Christmas lunch of (probably) a sandwich and crisps, same as every other day. New Year’s Eve. He’d wait and see what his prospects for a steady income were, mid-month.

Having believed himself a solitary soul, he was inordinately surprised to hear the low thunder of footsteps coming down the stairs beneath which part of his tiny flat was nestled, then the rattle of his doorknob being tried.

“Are you at home?”

“Ah, moment please.” He limped to the door and unlocked it, pulled it open to find Sherlock standing there in a smart, slim-cut suit and pale blue shirt, with shoes on and his hair arranged, a not insignificant change from the disheveled, partly-mad figure he’d cut the previous day. “What can I do for you?”

“Can you write?”

John felt his eyebrows rise. “Can I--? Yeah, of course I can write.”

“One never knows,” Sherlock mused.

“Really?”

“I wonder if I could persuade you to take some notes for me. I’ve a meeting with a client.” Sherlock, quickly assessing John’s confounded expression, added, “I’m a detective. Consulting Detective, the only one, a title I gave myself. Here’s my card.”

The card he produced from nowhere John could see bore his name, the fake title, and an email address. It was no more illuminating than the man himself, and John tucked it into the breast pocket of his shirt.

“A composer, from what I understand, who recently had some of his early manuscripts stolen from a safe-deposit box at C Hoare and Company.”

“Has he called the police?” John asked automatically.

“He feels the work would be an embarrassment, given that it pre-dates the music for which he has since become known, and he feels it is far inferior. He prefers to recover the manuscripts quickly and quietly, so as to avoid public awareness.”

John nodded. “All right. Just take notes? Can you not record the meeting?”

“Privacy is paramount; I’ll destroy the notes once I’ve solved the case and returned the property.” Sherlock rubbed his palms together, glancing over John’s shoulder into the flat. “And given the need for secrecy, I wonder if I could trouble you to host the meeting here? Unfortunately, I can’t guarantee my own flat is free of government surveillance equipment.”

John wondered if Sherlock might be a paranoid schizophrenic, or in a manic period--it could explain the one-day orgy of holiday decorating John had witnessed. Asserting that his flat might be bugged was a bit. . .out there.

As if sensing John’s concerns, he added, “I’ve a brother with his fingers in a lot of Her Majesty’s pies.”

“Mincemeat, at this time of year, one imagines,” John joked. Sherlock stared blankly at him for a half-second before carrying on as if John had not spoken.

“I’m expecting him momentarily,” Sherlock prodded, and John stepped aside to allow him in. Walking straight to the little table where John had been sitting with his laptop and cup of tea, Sherlock slapped the computer shut and tucked it between a small rubbish bin and the wall. He gulped down the last of the tea, grimaced because it was cold, then dropped the mug in the bin.

“Hey,” John protested.

“Notebook,” Sherlock ordered. For no reason John could identify, he fetched a notebook from the small table by the armchair, drew out the biro from where it was nestled down through the spiral rings.

There came a heavy knock at the front door, then for good measure the buzzer went, as well.

Sherlock needlessly smoothed the front of his suit jacket and went to answer the door. John stood in the middle of his single room, feeling a bit swept up in Sherlock’s current, though he couldn’t say he minded. It was something to do.

Sherlock returned leading a shorter, older man wearing a long camel-coloured cashmere coat and dark red muffler. The composer.

“Sir Paul, my assistant John Watson. He’ll be making a temporary record of our discussion which I shall guard with my life.” He gestured toward John, who automatically stuck out his hand.

“Sir Paul,” he said, feeling giddy, trying not to giggle. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Have a seat, won’t you?” Sherlock offered, his brusque, bored tone at odds with the proper etiquette.

“Take your coat?” John offered.

“Thanks.”

John took the man’s coat and made sure to pass close to Sherlock on his way to hang it on a peg by the door.

“Christ, Sherlock. That’s Paul McCartney!” he hissed through gritted teeth.

“You know him?”

“Of course I fucking know him. Don’t tell me you--”

“Popular music; not really my area.”

John had a lot of questions, which would have to wait, as Sir Paul was just then tucking his knees under John’s fake-wood table, picking a stray hair off it and flicking it to the floor. He hung the coat, clutched his notebook in a sweaty hand, and followed Sherlock across the room.


	3. You Better Watch Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (trope alert! trope alert! ** ** Coffee Shop ** ** trope alert! trope alert!)

John was acutely aware that cinnamon-sprinkled cappuccinos in paper cups were not in his meagre budget, but it was the first properly cold day of winter, and he’d left his gloves in the flat. His fingers were stiff with cold and a tasty hand-warmer would not go amiss, even if it did cost him three pounds he really could not afford to part with.

The counter-girl at Speedy’s wore a head scarf but wished him a happy Christmas. He smiled as he received the over-priced coffee across the counter, gripping his cane in the other hand as he turned to go.

It wasn’t like him not to notice an incoming body, even one walking silently on soft-soled, expensive shoes, even--or perhaps especially--one approaching him from behind. And yet he’d been distracted enough that when he turned, his bent elbow caught on someone’s rising forearm, he squeezed the cup too hard in an effort to save it, the top flew off, and the foamy, milky coffee arced up and splashed down, soaking them both.

“God, I’m so sorry,” John said automatically, reaching for a metal dispenser and pulling out squares of inadequate-ply paper to mop them with.

“My fault,” came a familiar voice, and John stopped scrambling for napkins long enough to register that the man who’d managed to get behind him without setting off all his internal alarms was none other than his upstairs neighbour, Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock dabbed at his coat’s sleeve with the end of his blue muffler, then raised the cuff to his mouth and licked off a blob of foam, which John found unexpectedly cute.

“You got the worst of it, I’m afraid,” Sherlock said, sounding apologetic, looking down at John’s shoes, which glistened with drops of spilled coffee. “What are you having? I’ll buy you another.”

“No, it’s all right. Thanks, though.”

“I insist.”

John found the bin and dropped the nearly-empty, crushed cup into it, wiped his hands on a balled-up napkin and tossed that, too. “That’s very kind. Ah. Tea.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “With steamed milk?”

John felt caught-out, and shuffled where he stood, looking again at his damp shoes. The silly coffee had been an extravagance, and the universe had served him his karma for wasting cash he shouldn’t spend, immediately and spectacularly. He wanted to do penance. He wanted Sherlock not to waste his own money on John’s frivolous impulses.

Sherlock didn’t wait for a reply, or perhaps was letting John off the hook by not pressing the issue. He turned to the counter girl and requested two more cappuccinos, to stay.

“Oh, I can’t,” John said quickly, needing to fall back and regroup. “Sorry. I have to--” He motioned toward the door with head and hand, unable to put more detail into the lie.

“One to stay, one to go. Make sure the lid’s tight.” He smiled at John, a mild joke that somehow wasn’t humiliating.

“Thanks,” John said, and the counter-girl passed the cup across to Sherlock, who handed it over. His hand was massive; the cup looked miniature in his grip.

Sherlock, still waiting for his own drink in a proper cup, on a saucer, on a tray, to have at a table, only smiled a bit, and rocked from heels to toes with his hands buried in his coat pockets.

“Shouldn’t you--?” he asked, flicking a glance toward the door.

“Right. Yeah,” John fumbled. “Thanks again. And sorry again.”

“No trouble,” Sherlock said. He met John’s eyes and with the slightest of smiles said, “Mind your back.”

John cleared a strange tightness from his throat, and his eyes prickled. He nodded, and turned to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> subscribe above for updates


	4. Snowman

Mrs Hudson appeared in the kitchen as John finished rinsing his dinner plate.

“Oh, John. I hope you helped yourself to some of that cake in the fridge,” she said, and laid her hand maternally upon his shoulder.

“I wasn’t sure,” he said sheepishly.

“Certainly I wouldn’t finish an entire one on my own; I get tired of it after two days. Sherlock will always help himself, so if there’s anything special in, you should be sure to have some before he takes it upstairs.” She rocked her head, smiling as if Sherlock was an irrepressible scamp, indeed. “He thinks I don’t know, but I do.”

“Well, thank you. That’s kind,” John said. Mrs Hudson fussed with the kettle, brewing up some foul-smelling green tea she scooped from a plastic bag. “Thanks, too, for the wreath.”

“The what, dear?”

“The wreath on my door.” When John had returned that afternoon from a few hours spent in the company of OAPs, students, and the homeless at the library, he’d discovered a small pine wreath hung on the door to 221C, decorated with white and ice-blue ribbons and a sprinkling of gold glitter.

“Oh, you got one, too? That’ll be Sherlock, as well,” she told him. "He pretends not to be sentimental, but every year at Christmas he makes everything so beautiful. Has his little party. He always gives me the most thoughtful gifts--lovely things I’d never get for myself. Last year it was a cashmere coat, my shade of red, with a bit of orange--I can’t wear blue-red, it makes me look sickly--cut so beautifully it reminded me of one I had in the 1960s, swinging London town, you know.”

John couldn’t help but smile as he wiped his hands on a ktichen towel, then folded it lengthwise and draped it over the handle of the oven.

“I’m going to pass on the cake for now, Mrs H, but I appreciate the offer.”

“Good night, dear.”

Back in his flat, John found a pad of pale yellow sticky notes and a suitably sharp pencil. In a few minutes, he had sketched a smiling snowman holding a pine wreath in its stick-arms, with a banner across the bottom reading “Merry Christmas.” He added a sun in the sky, with a cloud in front so as not to melt the snowman.

He made his way upstairs, the rubbery tip of his cane thudding on each step, and found both doors from the landing into Sherlock’s flat shut. He pressed the sticky note in place onto the sitting room door, right in the center of another, bigger wreath that hung there.

He felt a bit cheerful as he descended the stairs, and that was something rare, indeed.


	5. Believe

“Don’t you look wonderful!”

Mrs Hudson, with her hands clasped together in front of her heart. John alternated between feeling as though he was pulling it off, and feeling like a complete wanker.

“Stay right there; I’ve got to get a picture!”

“No, really, Mrs Hudson, I have to. . .” John threw up his hands; in less than a week he’d already come to realise there was no arguing with Mrs Hudson. He tugged back the white fur cuff of the red velvet jacket and checked his wristwatch, then checked outside the front door to see if the car had arrived yet to take him to the party.

He must have been in a good mood when the email came in, to have agreed at all. It was not his sort of thing, and yet here he was, about to spend two hours playing Saint Nick at a holiday party for families of deployed service members, giving out gifts to the children and posing for photos. The Falklands vet who usually did the job had come down with flu and an urgent call had gone out to find a volunteer to replace him. John would get a free meal out of it, and with any luck none of the kiddies would piss on his lap (though he knew there were no guarantees).

Mrs Hudson snapped his photo with an old point and shoot camera; John wondered if there was anywhere left locally to develop the film, but not for long, as the car the veterans’ charity had sent for him pulled up and sounded its horn. He took up his cane, waved Mrs Hudson a hearty goodbye and was on his way.

The party was noisy with blaring holiday music, children shouting and laughing, and general chatter among old and new friends. John was ushered to a prettied-up chair in an anteroom that would serve as Santa’s throne. The woman guiding him through the afternoon tucked his cane behind it, smiling all the while. “Just there, when you need it. If you can’t reach, just let me know and I’ll fetch it.” She was kind (obviously), in a particular way that touched him deeply; respectful, considerate, appreciative. Had he met her in different circumstances (for instance, wearing his own clothes and without the white beard glued to his jaw), he might have asked her on a date. He figured he still might.

She offered him ice water in a plastic cup which he gratefully accepted; he was over-warm in the heavy velvet suit and his well-polished army boots, not to mention the blanket of facial hair and the hat with its built-in fringe of white hair around the ears and neck.

Before he knew it, the doors were opened and parents led squirming, giggly children by the hands through a queue to sit on his knee and tell him what they wanted for Christmas. Over half of them said they wanted dad or mum to come home, and John wanted to promise he could grant the wish. Knowing the risk he’d run by doing so, he did some quick thinking and told each child that he was going to visit the absent parent on Christmas eve and pass on the message of how their child loved and missed them. Most were satisfied with this; some whispered an extra _tell her I love her_ or _tell him I lost my tooth_ in his ear; only a few cried.

He allowed himself to be hugged, again and again. He stroked the chubby hands of the wriggly babies. Took time to indulge curious examinations of the buttons on his coat. Told each child he knew how good they were, how hard they tried. Told them to take care of whichever parent or siblings were nearby. Accepted kisses on the cheek. Felt warmth radiating off them, not just their bodies fevered with holiday excitement and too many sweets, but their joy at seeing him--Santa, of course, but he was in there, as well--and the unguarded way they spoke.

John had been running on empty for months. In two hours, he was filled to bursting. Exhausting as it was, even with his noise-induced headache and the discomfort of the costume, he felt luckier than ever he had.

As each child moved away, they were handed a gift by a volunteer, and many of them turned back to call out their thanks. Some came back around after having opened it to show how it worked, tell how it filled in a gap in their collection, say it was just what they wanted. John was astonished by how easily and wholly they believed in the magic of it. Of a crippled, sad man in a silly suit, who was going to tell their mum they loved her.

Hours later, back in his little flat, scrubbed clean and dressed in his own clothes, with a box full of baked goods and his email full of photos taken by the coordinating volunteer, John still felt the residual bliss. He went to the kitchen to pour tea to have with some of the iced biscuits. The kettle was near-empty so he waited by the worktop while the fresh pot hotted up.

There was a blast of cold air as the front door swung open and then closed again, and he heard the stamping of feet on the rug and a thick, “Brrr!”

“Is that Sherlock?” he called, and ducked his head out. “Making tea. If you’d like.” He was feeling generous of spirit.

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said agreeably, and soon enough his long black coat filled the narrow doorway of the kitchen. John fetched the mugs and poured; Sherlock went into the fridge for milk, which he sniffed, and an apple, which he bit nearly in half with one go.

“Out on a case?” John asked, only for something to say.

“Mm. Sir Paul’s manuscripts.” He switched easily into a stout, eastern European accent. “Posing as a wealthy collector, trying to find the right connections to place bids in a black market auction.”

“That’s great,” John said, impressed with the dialect. “Good luck with it. And if Roger Daltrey or Morrissey ever hire you, I hope you’ll invite them to mine for tea.”

“I don’t know who those are.”

“Surely you. . .nevermind.”

John took up his cup. “I’ve biscuits and brownies and things, if you’d like something?” he offered, starting the quick walk down the foyer to his front door. Sherlock lingered, then followed. As they passed into the little flat, Sherlock looked around, turning this way and that exaggeratedly.

“It comes and goes, then?” he asked.

“What’s that?” John motioned for Sherlock to have a seat at the table and went for the bakery box of army wives’ holiday specialties.

“The psychosomatic limp.”

John stopped dead in his tracks, pulled his shoulders square.

“Have you given up the cane? Maybe this time it’s gone for good,” Sherlock mused, and John would have thought he was taking the piss, but his gaze was open and expectant, as if none of this line of discussion was new to John.

“No, I. . .Ah.” John stammered, and cleared his throat. “I suppose I just forgot it?”

“The limp?”

“The cane. Well. And the limp.” He was afraid to take another step, for fear the pain and its outward expression would return as suddenly as it had (apparently) gone.

“The power of belief is really quite impressive,” Sherlock said then, and leaned far across to lift the box from John’s hands. Rummaging through it, he said, “But sometimes a strongly-held one can be replaced by another, equally entrenched belief. One day you are certain your mother wore a red coat in winter when you were a child, but then you see a photograph that shows that very coat you were thinking of was blue, and never again do you think of it as red. You can’t imagine you ever did. And so in the end your brain decides you knew it was blue all along.”

John still hadn’t moved. He took inventory of his body’s sensations and could not find the pain that had plagued him from hip to knee ever since he’d left Afghanistan.

“So with your limp,” Sherlock concluded, motioning at him with an iced ginger biscuit in the shape of a reindeer’s head. “A new belief to replace the one you had that your leg bothered you.”

“Magic,” John murmured.

Sherlock crumpled his nose and made a disgusted sound. “I assure you this is science. I can get you the journal articles.”

John shook his head, even laughed a little. “Not exactly what I meant,” he assured. “Let’s just leave it at: I found something new to believe in.”


	6. Fireplace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a 221B ficlet (my first, in all these years, I think)

Awake. Gasping. The whistle of incoming artillery still ringing in his head. Heart pounding, throbbing, racing fast enough to shake his chest open and spill out all his guts. Breathe. Breathe. Jeezus. Breathe.

John swung his feet out from under the blankets, thinking of a walk to the kitchen for a glass of water. Normal things in normal places: the kettle on the worktop. Kitchen towel on the stove handle. Non-skid rug by the sink. After that he’d go to the bath, open the cold tap and drench his face. A shock. A gasp. A reminder that he must breathe.

Still lingering on the mattress edge, before John had even set his feet on the floor, his attention was caught by gentle, gliding music from. . .somewhere. His phone was dark and silent. Laptop closed and cold on the table. Was there a radio in the room he hadn’t noticed before? Under the bed?

It was coming from the fire. Down the flue from the flat upstairs. Not sad, but slow, more lullaby than dirge. John moved to the fireplace, head ducked, hand on the mantel. Violin, unaccompanied. Sherlock, at half past two in the morning.

John returned to the bed, lay on his back in the dark, just listening, getting warm. Reminded himself to breathe. . .breathe. . .

Breathe.


	7. Memories

John needed a light bulb for the reading lamp standing behind the armchair in his flat (not “his armchair” because it was too new to him, and too narrow, and the seat was too high, with tired springs). He told himself it was too late go up the road and round the corner to the shop; even walking at his newly-normal pace he’d likely just miss closing time. If the shop closed at the top of the hour, which it might do. Instead of braving the cold after dark, he figured he’d be a stereotypical neighbour and ask to borrow a cup of sugar. Or in this case, a lightbulb.

Mrs Hudson was elderly; she probably ate her supper at half-four and was in bed by six. No need to bother her.

Instead he headed up the stairs to 221B. The spill of light in the hallway told him Sherlock’s doors were open. Either the telly was on or Sherlock had visitors. Probably the telly. (There went the giveaway stair). Anyway, he’d soon find out.

A soft knock on the open door as he stepped closer, cleared his throat, “Uh, hi, Sherlock? I wonder if you’ve got a--Wow.”

The flat looked like something out of a ladies’ magazine. Two Christmas trees, one in front of each window on the Baker Street side, decorated in shades of cream and antique gold--doves and bows, candles, gift boxes and glass baubles crusted with glitter--and the mantel draped in pine and topped with battery-operated candles that could pass for real. The big table John had first seen covered with towering stacks of flammable clutter was covered with an ancient-looking, delicate lace cloth over a deep green one. There were pine wreaths and ribbon swags on every wall, twinkling fairy lights in the trees giving a soft glow to the room. Low arrangements of blowsy off-white roses decorated the coffee table and the octagonal cabinet beside the big grey leather armchair.

“Something you need?” Sherlock asked, from a seat in the big grey leather armchair. He was cradling a book that looked quite old, probably priceless, and was dressed in silver-grey pyjama pants, his long feet bare and pale, a black t-shirt, and a burgundy-coloured dressing gown.

“This place looks amazing,” John said.

“Thank you.”

“Ah, light bulb,” John said, inexplicably fumphering. “My uh,” he threw a thumb over his right shoulder to indicate his flat downstairs. “Lamp. Wondered if you have a light bulb I can borrow. Or. Have.” He cleared his throat again. “I suppose.”

Sherlock grinned at him--an odd, almost off-putting grin--and laid his book aside on the floor by the fire. “I’ll see. Have a seat.”

“Hm? No. Thanks. Don’t want to bother you.”

“It’s no bother,” Sherlock replied from the kitchen, where he was methodically opening one cupboard door after the other. “What’s your drink?”

John considered demurring again, but caught sight of Sherlock’s profile and decided to walk up to the edge. It had been forever since he’d had anyone. Even longer since he’d had a friend. And Sherlock was a bit weird, but god he was gorgeous. Only seemed to half-know it, too, which made it even worse. Or. Better.

“Whisky? If you have it.”

“Of course. I have a Macallan 18; is that all right?”

John burped a laugh. An eighteen year old Macallan whisky must run close to two hundred quid. “Yeah, I’d say that could be OK. If you don’t have anything better.” He smiled at his own joke and decided to take a seat in the threadbare red armchair across from Sherlock’s preferred seat. He admired the decor, and his eye was caught by what was on the television, a local news moment interviewing people-on-the-street about where they were last Christmas, and where they planned to be for this one.

Sherlock could be heard behind him, still opening and shutting doors and sliding drawers in and out.

John thought about where he’d been the previous Christmas, and Sherlock brought the bottle and two rocks glasses, handed them to John and let him pour. He opened cupboards below his book shelf, which also held the TV set.

He hummed, sounding grim. “Where were you, John?” he asked. “Last Christmas?”

“Afghanistan. We had a mass casualty that day from a roadside IED. I amputated three legs and then picked shrapnel out of one soldier’s bollocks and arse for about two hours. That’s one they don’t tell you about; step on a mine and get your prick blown off. Happens all the time.”

Sherlock stood upright and crossed one arm over his chest, tugged at his lip with the other hand, looking thoughtful. After a moment he crossed to his sofa, and reached under a lampshade, presumably twisting loose the bulb. “Damn! Hot!” He licked his fingertips--John noticed--and then turned the lamp off. “You can have that one when it cools off enough to handle.”

“Thanks, but don’t trouble yourself.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock smiled again, in a much less off-putting way.

“Where were you last Christmas?” John asked, grateful Sherlock had seemed neither discomfited by the realities of life in wartime, nor morbidly curious about it.

“Woke up in a stranger’s bedsit,” he said, his gaze traveling up and over as he recalled. “Robbed him of all available cash. Vomited several times on the walk to the nearest dealer’s flat. Shot up in her attic room. Next thing I remember it was New Year’s Eve.”

John nodded, and passed Sherlock his glass. John tucked his nose into the rim of his own; the whisky smelled so smoky and thick with caramel it was nearly erotic to experience. “So you’re a veteran, too,” John said. Not lightly.

Sherlock shook his head, dismissing it, but respectfully. “No, just a junkie.”

“I admit I don’t know you that well,” John said, “But you don’t seem like _just_ an anything.”

Sherlock tipped his head to the side a bit, studying John as if he were terribly intriguing and difficult to puzzle out. After a moment too long at it, Sherlock raised his glass in the air and said, “To bitter memories, and better days ahead.”

“Indeed,” John said. “To better days.”

They drank, and didn’t talk much, and once they’d drained their glasses, John accepted the proffered light bulb, and his courage failed him--they’d only just met, and they were neighbours, and anyway maybe Sherlock didn’t go that way, though it seemed like he probably did but one must never assume--and he retreated downstairs to the much-inferior armchair and the clamour of the interior of his own head.


	8. Music

“John, I need your help.”

John had taken to leaving his front door open, as Sherlock and Mrs Hudson both did, whenever he was at home--which he was most of the time--and not asleep. It helped him feel a little less hemmed in. It also gave him a better view of the front foyer, and he noticed Sherlock coming and going. Sometimes they said hello.

As such, Sherlock was stood in his doorway, hands on each side of the frame, leaning in. John was half-heartedly tending to his stalled job search. “Recent relevant experience” kept holding him up. It wasn’t that he didn’t wish to summarise the sort of doctoring he’d done in the army, it was only that it seemed too much to tell, given he was applying for a non-surgical position in a relatively quiet clinic. He was almost afraid whoever read his application might be repelled. He easily slapped the laptop shut and turned his attention to his upstairs neighbour.

“What can I do?”

“May I?” Sherlock asked perfunctorily, already sweeping his way inside the flat. He took the other chair at the table, turned it, and sat backwards on it, knees splayed. “I need to make a playlist for my Christmas party. You seem to know about popular music--”

“Because I know who Paul McCartney is? That’s not really specialised knowledge.”

“It is to me. Unless Stravinsky is in the Top of the Pops.”

“That’s not really how you use that phrase.” John wrinkled mouth and nose, shaking his head.

“Proving my point. I could spend time researching, or download something ready-made, but it seems like the kind of job that requires personal attention.”

John reopened his laptop. “You need my, what, groove? Vibe.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed, sounding less than convinced. John called up his favoured music app and rubbed his palms together, then twined his fingers and stretched them.

“What kind of mood are you looking for?”

“Festive. Not raucous, of course. Nothing maudlin.”

“Is it a dinner? Drinks?”

“Drinks and h’ors deouvres. Before dinner so people don’t linger all night.”

John tapped his nose. “Very wise. Cocktail hour. All right, how about a retro thing? There are a lot of space age, atomic-cocktail type versions of classic Christmas songs out there; and 1940s swing was a bit of a thing a while back, there’s bound to be some in that style. But updated. Not too intrusive, but if you happen to notice the music amidst the over-the-rim flirting, small talk, and cheek-kisses that happen at a drinks party, it’s pleasant. Kind of quirky.”

“I’m quirky,” Sherlock replied in an _a-ha_ tone, nodding, seemingly rapt by John’s lecture on holiday party music.

“You said that, not me,” John smiled and started searching, then filing songs into a playlist. “Anyway, unless it doesn’t suit you, you could think about doing a signature cocktail, maybe. Something from back in the day. Sidecar. Old-fashioned. Harvey Wallbanger.”

Sherlock was still nodding.

“Surely you know _Blue Christmas_ ,” John prodded.

“It’s a vintage cocktail?”

“An Elvis song.” John shook his head, grinning. “Maybe you could invent the cocktail, though. Here, I’ve added two versions of the song, one early in the evening and one later.”

“I’m a graduate chemist; I can invent a mixed drink,” Sherlock said confidently.

“That’s the spirit. Let me know if you need a taste-tester. Ah, there we are.” John named the list and saved it for easy access. “Two and a half hours of retro-sounding, festive, not raucous, not maudlin Christmas music.”

“You’ll email me a link?” Sherlock asked, rising from the table. “You still have my card.”

John did, but he thought it a bit arrogant of Sherlock to have assumed so.

“Sure. Of course.” He smiled, feeling off-balance. He thought, too late, that he should get up and walk Sherlock to the door, but Sherlock was already nearly there. And then he was through it, and out of sight.

John frowned, then muttered, “You’re welcome. Sure, I’d love to come to your party. Thanks for asking.”

Sherlock suddenly swung back into view. “You’ll come.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

And then he was gone again.


	9. Gift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **trope alert!**trope alert!** "I accidentally got yr package" **trope alert!**trope alert!**

There came a knock on John’s door just after lunch (he’d woken late, had a wank, and on returning from the shower, shut the door to finish dressing and just never got around to opening it again). He checked his teeth in the small mirror over the mantel and skimmed fingers through is fringe, and was already smiling when he opened the door.

“Sign for this package?” asked the delivery driver standing there.

“Was the front door not locked?” John asked, annoyed that Sherlock may have made Mrs Hudson vulnerable by leaving the heavy front door open for anyone to walk through.

“Caught it as another bloke came in. Is he deaf? I tried to call him but he didn’t reply.”

John grimaced. “He hears just fine. But he’s…” He did not wish to be casually cruel about Sherlock’s nature, even to a stranger, and so finished, “Quirky.”

“Yeah, aw’right. Sign there.”

John took the offered biro and scribbled his signature where indicated. The package was smallish, but weighty. Addressed to Sherlock, who could have signed himself.

He watched the deliveryman leave, and after a few seconds went to check the lock. He started up the stairs to hand Sherlock his box.

“This came for you,” John said. “The guy thought you heard him calling you as you came in but I guess somehow you missed it.” He held the box out in front of him, and when Sherlock–standing by his kitchen worktop turning over papers in a file folder–did not move to accept it, thumped it down rather soundly on the kitchen table.

“It’s fragile,” Sherlock said, with his back turned.

“So it says. Anyway, there it is.” John crossed his arms over his chest. After a long pause, Sherlock turned halfway, looking over his shoulder.

“Something else?”

“You’re welcome.”

Sherlock’s nose crumpled at the bridge. He quick-glanced at the box on the table, return address in Scotland, not that John was being nosy.

“Oh. Thank you for bringing it up. Tell me, have you any experience with plastic surgery?”

“Not much,” John replied, interest captivated to the point of eclipsing his annoyance at Sherlock’s rudeness, especially when he’d gone out of his way not to tell the deliveryman he was a bit of a prat. “Some academic stuff, in textbooks; watched a couple of procedures during my training. Why?”

“I’ve a case in which a particular plastic surgeon appears to be stashing contraband inside his patients, then fetching it out again later.”

“Not really,” John accused.

“If not that, he’s got some highly specific erotic fixation involving unnecessary corrective procedures. Either way: interesting.”

“That’s one word for it,” John allowed.

“All I need is for you to flash your credentials at his office; I’ll do the talking to get what I need. They won’t even notice you haven’t said a word, and by the time they get suspicious, we’ll be long gone.”

“You seem pretty sure of yourself.”

Sherlock nodded. “I always am.”

“All right. I’m intrigued,” John said.

“Excellent!” Sherlock smacked his hands together and looked pleased, like a kid who’d just been told he could set up the tent in the back garden for the night. “Pack a bag; we’ll be gone until tomorrow.”

“Oh,” John stammered, “You mean now? Right now we’re going?”

“We’ll have to leave here in twenty minutes, not to miss our train.”

“Ohh…kay. All right.”

“You’ve already consented; don’t repeat yourself. I’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes. Bring a hat.”

John felt a strange sense of giddy anticipation as he descended the stairs. His bug-out bag was still packed at the foot of his bed; it took him the full twenty remaining minutes, though, to decide on a hat.


	10. Do You See What I See?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **trope alert!**trope alert!**

Sherlock took a key from a false panel in a wooden planter full of evergreen shrubbery, and in the next block, used it to enter a small, nondescript flat. He immediately started making phone calls, keeping his coat on, shutting himself out on the balcony. John showed himself around, wondering how Sherlock had come to know the location of a well-hidden key to a flat in Leeds. Minimal kitchen with attached sitting area--not really large enough to be called a “room”--three piece bath, bedroom. John’s fist clenched tight around his bag’s carrying strap. There was only one bed.


	11. Comfort and Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **BBC Sherlock fic trope alert!!**BBC Sherlock fic trope alert!!** Takeaway curry **BBC Sherlock fic trope alert!!**BBC Sherlock fic trope alert!!**

“So, this flat. . .”

“Belonged to a friend of mine. Well. I say ‘friend’--proved he was a con artist swindling wealthy widows out of their money and as it happens he won’t be needing the place for at least eight years, so.”

“. . .so.”

“Keeping an eye on it for him.”

“Right.”

“There’s a decent curry shop around the corner--”

“Sounds fantastic.”

“--you can walk there easily. Oh.”

“Oh. You’re not--?”

“I tend not to eat when I’m on a case. Weighs me down; makes the brain sluggish.”

“All right then. I can’t bring you back anything? For later?”

“Thanks, no. Bring a receipt, I’ll charge it as expenses.”

“Charge it to?”

“The crown prosecutor. I’ve been hired to find evidence the police are too lazy and slack-jawed to procure as they build a case against this surgeon.”

“Can they? Obtain evidence outside a police investigation?”

“They can, of course.”

“Legally?”

“I’m notoriously discreet.”

“Right. What’s the surgeon’s name? I might know of him.”

“Bernard Comfort.”

“Or not. Sorry.”

“No trouble; I didn’t expect you to, as he’s undistinguished--never published, no flashy back-of-the-bus-bench adverts extolling his rhinoplasty techniques--and in his early seventies, so wouldn’t have been a member of your medical college cohort.”

“So he’s stitching stacks of hundred-pound notes into the bellies of liposuction patients?”

“Not exactly. But along those lines. Go and get your takeaway and when you get back I’ll tell you all about it. When we go into his clinic tomorrow you’re going to have to tell him you’re the brother of a patient he’s accused of killing while trying to retrieve his contraband.”

“I thought you said I wouldn’t even have to talk.”

“Change of plan.”

“Could you not just have played the part yourself? You seem pretty clever. Maybe did a bit of drama at the all boys public school, eh? Juliet? Or maybe Cleopatra.”

“I do enjoy a disguise, I’ll admit. But I need you to create a diversion while I liberate some medical records.”

“That definitely doesn’t sound like not even having to talk.”

“I assure you it will be quick and painless.”

“Yeah, sounds like that what’s he said. Ol’ Bernie Comfort.”

“Come to think of it, I will have the goat karahi. Stay away from the shrimp if you want to live through the night. Left out the door, then the next left, about two hundred steps up the road--Joy Curry.”

“Anything else?”

“No. Well. Pakora, if they have it."


	12. Gingerbread

In an unsettling juxtaposition of cuisines, the curry shop dropped two complimentary gingerbread biscuits in the bag with Sherlock’s goat and John’s lamb. They were from a shop--appeared to be from a box full, separated out and individually re-wrapped in cling film--and nothing to get terribly excited about, but John found himself considering pocketing both.

He’d only barely had enough cash to cover the bill, did mental calculations of his bank balance (as ever) against their overnight excursion. Sherlock had said he didn’t eat much while on cases; John hoped that would translate to not having to offer to buy him breakfast, or tea on the train back to London. He was halfway to Christmas, without a job, unmotivated to find one, living in a room he could manage the rent on for exactly three more weeks. If he didn’t buy Sherlock breakfast and tea. For the first time since the army had forced him home, he could too-easily envision himself with nothing. What he had was meagre. Very soon it could be less, and then nothing.

Seeing Sherlock--every time--was a pleasant shock. From every angle he was a different man--reedlike and severe standing upright in a finely tailored suit; soft-shouldered in his dressing gown and pyjamas; graceful motion and perturbing stillness; eyes wide and narrow--and in all of these, John had yet to find an angle where he wasn’t distressingly handsome.

As John let himself back into the strange flat, Sherlock was half-slumped on the sofa, miles-long legs extended, ankles crossed, one heel on the coffee table. He dragged his fingers through his hair, dug in and scratched, disarranging the dark waves in a way that made John wonder if he was being secretly filmed for a prank; it was too much. He cleared his throat.

“Free Christmas biscuits with every purchase,” he said, settling the question of whether or no he would hoard the sweets for himself, for later, just in case.

Sherlock spooled out the story of the case as they ate, and it was fascinating and horrible, and John was rapt. Though nothing personally encouraging was said, he felt more confident about his proposed role in Sherlock’s subterfuge by the time he’d finished the tale. It would be fine. It might even be fun.

“In short, a bad man, and a very bad doctor,” Sherlock finished. He dipped his fingertips into the paper bag, persuading it open and peering over the edge. “Biscuits, you said?”

They each took one--small, with cracked white icing defining face, collar and cuffs, but they smelled nice--and made short work of them.

“Love an iced biscuit,” Sherlock said. “Even an inferior one.”

“Hard to go wrong,” John agreed. “Favourite Christmas food?” He proffered the question as a conversation-maker, in a tone that made it sound like a life-or-death challenge.

“Mince pies,” Sherlock replied without hesitation. “And you?”

John grinned, “I like a good old boozy steamed pudding. All the best things in one.” He started clearing up what remained of their meal. Sherlock pulled a paper-thin laptop from his case and opened it on the table between his splayed knees. “I’ll take the sofa, by the way.”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock said dismissively. “I’ve work to do and won’t sleep much. Take the bed. I’m fine here.”

Not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed, John nodded, and rolled the fingers of his left hand against a rising itch in his palm. “Anything I can do to help?” he offered.

Sherlock’s eyes were glued to his laptop screen and his tone was distracted. “No. . .not really. . .”

“OK then. I’ll, ah, leave you to it.”

“Mm.”

John stood dumbly for another moment and finally cleared his throat and ventured, “What do you do when you’re not on a case? Not working. For fun.”

Only Sherlock’s eyes moved, sliding up and sideways to look at John. Then his eyebrows rose.

John shrugged. “Movies? Or. . .concerts?”

“Sometimes,” Sherlock said. He looked. . .amused? John felt wobbly.

“Wondered if we might,” he said hesitantly. Could it be Sherlock did not know what John was asking? Maybe John had been right to think Sherlock didn’t go that way. “Go see a movie sometime. Maybe when the case is done. Solved.”

“I’m flattered by your interest, but--”

John threw his hands up, waving it away. “Oh, no. That’s fine.”

“--I consider myself married to my work.”

It sounded weirdly rehearsed. No doubt Sherlock got asked on dates by better men than John every few hours; it was likely a stock speech he’d developed to let them down easy. John did not wish to be let down, so played it off.

“No, I wasn’t. I mean,” he forced a sort of half-laugh, another shrug of the shoulders. “Just thought it could be fun to not go on my own for a change; I always feel a bit daft laughing at a movie by myself.” Shrugged again. “It’s fine.”

“Maybe another time,” Sherlock said, and gave another off-putting smile. John thought he would rather be shot in the other shoulder than have to go through this humiliation again; he would not be asking Sherlock Holmes to a movie, a concert, or a walk in the park, ever again.

“Right,” John said, waving his hands, shaking his head, shrugging his shoulders, making every indication it was Not A Big Deal. “Another time.” He gathered his bag from where he’d left it by the front door--before the sleeping arrangements had become clear--and headed for the bedroom. “Good night then.”

“Hm. Good night, John.”


	13. Frost

Above the sink in the kitchen John shared with his landlady, there was a small greenhouse window--a glass box jutting out from the wall, with two shelves on which to set houseplants. Mrs Hudson must not have the greenest of fingers, because there was only one lonely pot on the middle shelf: a miniature ivy with a yellow satin ribbon tied in a bow, tucked into the soil on a plastic stake. John imagined it must have been a gift once upon a time. It seemed not to need much tending; it was hardly exuberant but none of its leaves were dry. After the first few trips John had made to the kitchen, he’d stopped really seeing it; it was just part of the run-the-taps scenery, same as the glass surrounding it, same as the chipped brick wall beyond.

He’d seen Mrs Hudson spritz the plant with a fine mist of water from a spray bottle, nattering pleasantly about how it didn’t like wet feet, so she never soaked the soil, and by some miracle it hasn’t died, so why muck about with the recipe? Spray the leaves Wednesdays and Sundays and leave it alone. Though he had grown so used to the thing he barely registered its presence, in the evening hours after their return from Leeds (Sherlock had offered to buy the breakfast and the tea on the train, claiming it as a valid expense he could charge to the client, a fact which gave John an enormous sense of relief), he found himself squinting at it. The leaves wore a troubling coat of white. . .something.

John leaned close, even switched on the overhead for more light.

It was frost. Some magical meeting of moisture rising from the sink, and cold air seeping in around the not-recently-maintained silicone seals of the window’s corners. He could just make out feathery, snowflake-like crystal formations dusting the tiny leaves. He gently pinched one between forefinger and thumb, and the ice melted away instantly, almost--it seemed--without him really having to touch it. It was that fine. From a distance it had seemed a troubling coating of ice, but up close it was beautiful. Melting it was easier than he’d imagined it would be.

It reminded him of someone.


	14. A Beautiful Sight

Someone had slid the post under John’s door while he was at the library. He’d thought the change of scenery might persuade him to concentrate more profoundly on finishing the online application for an NHS position though in the end he’d found a comfortable chair by an upstairs window and read half a Roddy Doyle novel.

There was only a takeaway menu, the notice that his army pension had been deposited in his account on the tenth of the month, and something he at first took for one of those come-on’s disguised as something important, as it was stamped Open Immediately On Receipt and Official Document Return If Undeliverable. But just as he was about to tear it in half and bin it, he realised it was from the office of the Crown Prosecution Service. Half afraid of what he might find, John slid the envelope open.

Inside was a hand-written note of thanks from someone he had never heard of, appreciative of his assistance in the case being investigated by Sherlock Holmes. Enclosed please find a cheque--

And so he did. Compensation for his day’s work lying to a crooked surgeon while Sherlock stole x-ray films, then a foot chase that left him buzzing-high on adrenaline, cracking wise about how if this was what all the cases were like, Sherlock should know he was free to assist at anytime. He blinked at the amount to be paid, which was slightly more his current bank balance, effectively assuring at least a roof over his head, into the new year.

Sick with relief, John sank into the too-narrow armchair, afraid to take his eyes off the thing lest it prove itself a dream.

A knock on the open door, and Sherlock swanned in, heavy coat smelling of dirty rain and old cigarettes. He helped himself to a banana from the bunch sat beside three apples and two satsumas in a bowl on John’s little table.

“Thought you’d like to know the woman we met in Comfort’s clinic had the gold ingot safely removed from her sinus cavity by a competent surgeon. She’s in recovery and the gold is in evidence.”

“Hope they cleaned it,” John deadpanned. “Hey, did you have something to do with this? A cheque from the CPS?” He flicked it with his fingernail.

“I wasn’t sure your hourly rate,” Sherlock said, by way of reply.

“This is a good one, I’d say,” John told him. “Thank you.”

Sherlock brushed aside the air beside his shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

“I owe you one,” John said.

“Not really. Though,” Sherlock tilted his head. “I do have something you might be able to help me with. Sure to be mentally challenging. Possibly dangerous.”

“Sounds like fun.”

Sherlock smiled.


	15. Toy Soldier

Sherlock hadn’t given John any details about the new case with which he was expected to assist, except a note slipped under his closed door sometime before he awoke, reading, “Walk outside for ten minutes, then come up to my flat at 6:15pm. Wear what you’d wear on a date. Not those ugly shoes.”

John did not think any of his shoes were ugly, but he thought he knew the ones Sherlock meant and so avoided them. He dressed smartly in dark grey wool trousers, a blue button-up shirt and argyle-patterned cardigan. Put on his coat and walked five minutes up the street, then back again, and straight up the stairs to Sherlock’s flat.

“Ah, here he is now,” Sherlock said, as soon as John crossed the threshold. Rising to greet him, Sherlock mouthed, _Go along_ , as he approached. John noticed past Sherlock’s shoulder that there was an older couple sitting slightly apart on the sofa. The man was wearing a cardigan over a button-up shirt and the woman held her handbag in her lap as if afraid to be parted from it. There were the remains of tea and biscuit-crumbs on the coffee table in front of them.

“Hi,” John said, feeling it was the safe way to go, until he got the lay of the land, to keep his commentary minimal.

“May as well keep your coat on, we’ll have to go right away or be late,” Sherlock told him. He gestured. “John, may I introduce my parents.”

John felt his eyes get big.

“This is John Watson, who I was telling you about.”

John stepped forward to shake their hands, urging them not to get up on his account.

“No trouble,” said Sherlock’s mother, “Seems you two are in a hurry to be off, anyway, so we’ll be leaving.”

“Sherlock,” his father intoned, “Help your mother with her coat.”

Sherlock moved to the hall tree to comply with the order, and his mother said, “It’s nice to finally meet you. We’re in London so seldom, and the last three times we visited, you were overseas.”

John tried to control the motion of his eyebrows, coughed into his hand. “Well, yes. Bad timing, that. But here we are now. At last.”

As John struggled to imagine who Sherlock’s mother thought he was, Sherlock interrupted. “There’s a car on its way for you. How unfortunate we can’t stay and chat, but John and I have a dinner reservation, and I’ve promised to let him take me to a movie afterward.”

Sherlock said all this while giving John _a look_ which he recognised, and which made him feel a bit weak-kneed. Was John meant to be playing. . .?

“Sherlock’s boyfriend!” his father exclaimed, disbelief in his tone. “Honestly I was beginning to think he’d made it all up. Doctors Without Borders? That’s admirable work.”

“Absolutely it is,” John answered too quickly, then corrected himself, “Well, I mean to say it’s vital. And there’s much to admire about the organisation, but I’m just a doctor, doing my job.” He was pleased with the recovery.

“I thought you’d be taller,” his mother commented, as Sherlock slid her coat up her arms and onto her shoulders. “But otherwise, you’re almost exactly as I imagined.” She turned to Sherlock and beamed at him. “You’ve done well for yourself, Sherlock.” Back to John: “You take the best care of him, or you’ll have me to answer to.” There was an edge to the playful warning that made John feel he--if he had actually been dating Sherlock--really should tread carefully lest he get on the bad side of Mother Holmes.

Sherlock moved nearer the door, standing beside John, so John stuck out a hand and laid it against Sherlock’s low back, where it rested for several seconds. His parents moved to hug him and shake his hand, and then John got the same, with promises to have a longer visit next time. The way Sherlock’s mother shook her finger at him gave John to know it was not a false promise.

As the two began their descent toward the front door, John said, “Darling, I wish you’d told me your parents would be here; I’d have come earlier.” He scolded, “Shameful behaviour.”

Sherlock’s mother called over her shoulder. “It certainly is, Sherlock.”

“Forgive me, I got my calendar mixed up,” Sherlock replied, and reached for the door, pushing it shut and cutting off any further need for playacting for his parents’ benefit.

“John, before you say anything--”

“That’s your dangerous case? Pretending to be your fake boyfriend?”

“Well, dangerous for me. If they found out I’d been lying to them for eighteen months.”

“Eighteen months!” John barked a laugh. “That really is shameful. Lying to your parents.” He made an exaggerated expression of disappointment. “They seem lovely.”

“Yes, for seven minutes on their way out a door, they’re wonderful,” Sherlock said sardonically. He busied himself clearing away the teacups and empty plates.

“Well, glad to be of service, I suppose. Will I see them at your ‘do on Christmas eve, then?”

“God, no! That’s why I had them here today.” He motioned with his elbow toward a pile of gift wrap on the big leather armchair. “They brought me a jumper. You can have it, if you like. In lieu of your hourly rate.”

John laughed again. “Thanks, no. I’ll just wait for my cheque,” he joked.

“Suit yourself,” Sherlock told him.

“Need help with the washing up, then?” John offered.

Sherlock demurred. “Not in your job description,” he said, and John got the message. _Strictly business; clock out and go home, Watson_.

“All right, then. Enjoy the rest of your night.”

Sherlock, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs beside the kitchen sink, replied, “And you.”

As he was already in his date clothes, and newly flush, John thought he might take himself over to the pub, and then to a movie. He kept thinking it until he reached the lower landing, but then let himself into his flat, shut the door behind him, and opened his laptop. He decided to find a new flat; with any luck, he could be out of 221C Baker Street--and out of the orbit of the unattainable Sherlock Holmes--by Christmas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **trope alert!!**trope alert!!** Fake Dating **trope alert!!**trope alert!!*


	16. Season's Greetings

More junk in the post: holiday sales adverts, mobile phone companies appearing to offer better prices than their same-priced competitors (and here were three postcards to prove it), and just in case he wished to buy a Jaguar–well, the current model year ones were a downright steal, but only if one made haste to one’s local dealer.

Beneath it all, a greeting-card sized envelope, almost square, of thick, rough paper in a tasteful shade of dark red. On the front, elegantly hand-lettered in gold ink, _Dr John Watson, downstairs_.

John laughed, and flipped it over to slide his thumb beneath the flap (gold wax sealed with _SH_.)

Inside was a photo card, portraying a mantelscape of pine and candles John immediately recognised. Just to the right of center, an antique-looking folding knife was stabbed through the top of a long, cream-coloured strip of paper, the writing on it just legible: a wishlist.

 _jewel heist_  
_bloodless corpse_  
_something royal_  
_novel poisoning_  
_Ibiza in January_  
_locked-room murder_  
_anything to do with a dog_

It went on for another twenty or so items. John found himself laughing again. He turned the card to the back, and was surprised to find a hand-written note.

 _Greetings of the season, John,_  
_I appreciate the effort you made to create my holiday playlist, and enjoyed having you along on my plastic surgery case. I hope we will have opportunities again in future to work so well together. You have my best wishes for a new year that brings you all you wish for._  
_Best,_  
_SH_

Well, what the hell did that mean? John read it again, then a third time. Nothing terribly personal, though the note itself was more personal than the generic holiday card. Shortly, John decided it was not a case of mixed signals, the signals were all quite clear: Married to his work, but you can help if you like. Also, Happy New Year.

As he started out into the hallway, on his way to the bath, Sherlock came down the steps, and in his hand was a thick stack of the red envelopes.

“Hey,” John said, and smiled though he felt grim about it. “Thanks for the card.”

“Of course,” Sherlock replied, looking pleased. His face immediately collapsed into vexation. “I’ve been up all night writing them,” he confessed. “A hundred and twelve to clients, seventeen to family, three to friends.”

John bit back an urge to blurt something about Sherlock only having three friends. Perhaps those were just the three he’d gotten around to writing thus far. He was having a party in a few weeks, after all; certainly he wasn’t going to have it just for three friends.

“That’s a lot of writing,” John commented at last.

“Yes, well, it’s a tradition. Though there are troublingly few ways to say, Happy to have solved your brother’s murder, do keep me in mind for any future major crimes.”

John smiled, though Sherlock did not appear to be joking. Was he really so oblivious to the way he was perceived? Or did he just not care? Quirky, indeed.

“Must rush not to miss the last pickup at the post box,” Sherlock said, almost apologetically.

“I won’t keep you.” John gave what he thought was a friendly--perhaps even professionally distant--nod, and carried on his way.


	17. Warm and Cozy

Empty bottle and John had to stick his feet out the bottom of the blankets because they were too warm. Closed his eyes--room spinning--no good--opened his eyes. Turned over and pondered vomiting. Rode it out.

D’yever tellya the time a’got intune argument witha soldier’s angry at me cos he’s _damned sure_ he had all his limbs but I’m tryna tell him, No. No, son. Sorry. Nope. He’d half an arm left by th’end. He’s so angry. So angry.

Turned on his side, fingers toward the floor, found the bottle and raised it and remembered it was empty when it touched his lips. His eyes wanted to close. Bed spinning. Fuck it. Sat up, head so heavy it swung him forward and he caught himself (barely) on the corner of the table.

S’tiniest room in the world. I’ma fuggin _giant_ in this room. Fuckin’

Laughed and slapped his hand over his mouth to stop laughing--christ is that the--shh!--sthat the time?--and knew he should drink water but the tiny fucking room had no sink. Blankets. Pulled them down, wrapped them around, curled tight on his side on the floor by the bed.

Floor’s spinning too but sometimes. Sometimes you just. You hafta just. Ride it out. Ride it out, y’know? Shut up, Watson. Go asleep, now. Go asleep.


	18. Celebration

Mrs Hudson won three bottles of decent champagne in a charity raffle. Just the sound of the popping cork made John feel green around the gills. Her voice in the entry hall calling, “Boys! I need you!” was like a needle in his ear drum that exited through the back of his neck. The smell of Sherlock’s freshly applied (usually really rather nice--distractingly nice) after shave as he passed John’s door forced him to swallow a sour throatful of upward-rushing bile.

He made it to his door, told her, “Sorry, Mrs Hudson. I’m feeling pretty poorly,” and then hurried past them both to the bath.

No more drinking alone. No more cheap whisky. And--dear god, his back--no more sleeping on the floor.

Well. Not in the new year, anyway.


	19. Silent Night

John had finally nearly finished the NHS job application. He spent at least a few hours a day mentally rehearsing what it would be like to work in a London clinic, tried to make it engaging or at least appealing but repeatedly failed. He cursed the tremor in his hand that had put a premature end to his life’s work as a surgeon. He doubly cursed the dead soul of the one who had shot him and left him sometimes-sleepless from the ache in his shoulder, with tingling in the nerves of his arm and hand, little irritating licks of fire that ranged from ticklish itch to stabbing burn.

He sat down with his laptop, at the table, facing the open door (another cause of his pain: as he could never put his back to a door, he was forced to sleep on his bad side; the room was all wrong for him; he still hadn’t found another one suitable and cheap enough). Just as his fingers settled on the keys, there came a distressing racket above him, Sherlock’s huge feet, not walking. He was here, there, and everywhere, random landing spots for every step, some light, some heavy. It carried on for long moments, then stopped.

John rubbed his forehead and returned his attention to his computer. And it started up again, further to his right. He looked at the ceiling as if it could tell him something. The flurry of footsteps made their random, thudding way around the room, then came a scrape and a thud, and a sound like ball bearings rolling down the slight Baker Streetward slope of the floors. Sherlock let out a rumbling complaint--words John could not discern--and silence fell once more.

It lasted only a minute, two at the most. Sherlock started rearranging furniture. The legs slid and scratched. Pieces thumped together. Sherlock sighed out angry groans. The noise carried on for the best part of a quarter hour.

John gave it up for lost and switched to playing a mindless, anxiety-soothing game wherein he fired coloured balls at other coloured balls to explode pairs. The sound effect when the balls landed was satisfying. The high-pitched, unearthly swooping sound when they burst was tolerable.

The noises upstairs went on for hours. Furniture moving, Sherlock walking at various paces, a vacuum cleaner, a blender. Ice cubes being poured into a plastic bucket. Violin tuning, followed by something short John recognised but did not know the name of, and he hummed along. A blast of pop music that was quickly turned down to nothing--Sherlock had been taken by surprise at its volume. The rattle of the pipes all through the house, for longer than it took to do washing up or to take a shower. The unmistakable smash of something glass hitting the floor, Sherlock shouting an unintelligible three-syllable curse, doors slamming.

John lost his afternoon to casual gaming, videos of celebrities singing in a car, and scrolling social media where he was nominally present but inactive, which activated anxiety that sent him back to casual gaming. He stayed in the loop until the uncharacteristic silence above him stretched on long enough for him to notice.

He lifted his head and stretched his neck, couldn’t believe the time, and how much of it he’d wasted.

Sherlock appeared in his doorway, looking coolly normal in one of his slim-angled suits and holding his coat over one arm.

“Are you any good at shopping?” he asked.

John raised his shoulders in a shrug but didn’t let them down again. “As good as any bloke who sort of hates it,” he allowed.

Sherlock hummed. “Come along, then. I need a second pair of eyes and Mrs Hudson has her book club. I don’t know why mature women feel they must pretend they are sharing a common reading experience when their actual aim is to drink wine and share gossip, but I’m told it’s none of my business.”

It didn’t occur to John to argue; he was already shrugging his coat on. “What are you shopping for?” he asked, as the two made their way toward the heavy front door.

“Things.”

“What was all the noise, by the way?” John asked.

Sherlock looked at him blankly. “Road work? Or, have they redirected the flights over us again?” he offered.

John opened his mouth to protest. Closed it again. At last, he said, “Yeah. Probably something like that.”


	20. Home

They’d been waiting with armloads of shopping bags--bedsheets and quilts, all from a display Sherlock gestured at and said, “That one”--at a taxi stand outside the things-for-the-home shop when Sherlock’s mobile went. After listening, looking grim and humming now and then, for a moment, he’d demanded a police escort back to Baker Street for the parcels, and directed the taxi to a familiar address. John had neither been invited nor disinvited, and so had climbed into the back of the cab beside Sherlock.

The case appeared to bear all the markings of a domestic murder but one. The victim was a notorious recluse with no spouse or dating partner, no siblings, and no living parents. The tiny flat was a rat’s maze of clutter piled on the floor and every horizontal surface to heights around John’s beltline--some as high as his shoulder--and there was a low, rank smell of old food, wet paper, and body odour. A badly staged fake suicide. No suspects, no motive, a computer screen displaying YOU DIED Try Again? Yes / No.

Sherlock had called in a favour from a computer whiz, arranged a place for her to work outside the police station she refused to step foot inside. John crouched beside Sherlock, by the body, and shared his impressions of a wound in the entirely wrong place for a suicide, the handgun beside his leg looking so clean it might never have been fired. He was dressed smartly from the waist up; his lower half, though, wore ragged tracksuit bottoms and vinyl slippers.

“Video chat, maybe?” John ventured, looking at the desk where the computer had been photographed and was by then being removed by uniformed officers to transport to Sherlock’s on-call hacker. “But there was a game showing there.”

Sherlock looked intense and thoughtful.

“I have all I need. I’ll be in touch,” he said to the plainly-dressed cop who appeared to be in charge. “John.”

The relief of fresh, frigid air outside the building was shocking; John hadn’t realised how stifling the flat had been. Sherlock jotted notes in a tiny notebook he tucked back inside his coat while John stood by, keeping his back to the building until he couldn’t resist a backward glance.

“You’ve been here before,” Sherlock told him, and John shook his head, denying it.

“No.” There was a headache gathering between his eyebrows. He looked up the road for evidence of a taxi.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head, like a curious bird. “You’ve _lived_ here before,” he said, sounding pleased with himself for having guessed it.

John cleared his throat. Sherlock looked at the shabby building again.

“Childhood home?” Sherlock asked.

John wanted not to think about it. “Yeah.” He stepped up to the kerb and waved. “Taxi!”

“Not a happy one.”

“Nope.”

A cab stopped for them and John wasted no time sliding across the seat, as if the extra distance from the building was significant. Sherlock folded himself in and directed the driver back to Baker Street.

“Not many doctors come out of this post code,” Sherlock commented. “You must have been an exceptional student.”

More than not wanting to think about it, John did not want to talk about it. “Well, not many doctors come out of this post code, so I knew I had to be,” he said. There was a half-second where it seemed Sherlock might ask another question so John said, in as casually friendly a tone as he could muster, “No shame in a working class background.”

“So I’ve heard,” Sherlock replied, and John could tell he was attempting a joke at his own expense, not John’s.

“My parents were drunks. And now my sister.” And probably me, as well, he didn’t say aloud. “I prefer to keep facing forward, if you know what I mean.”

“It’s always good to know the escape route,” Sherlock affirmed.

“Anyway, it’s ancient history, and what’s that they say? You can’t go back home again.”

“We just did.”

John couldn’t help but smirk. “I think it means you’re never the same person you were, so even if you try to relive parts of your life, you can’t, because they don’t fit you anymore. Those experiences would never feel the same.”

“Ah.”

There was a long pause where neither of them spoke, then, not knowing why, John said, “It used to feel frightening. Then it made me angry. Now it’s just sad.”

John didn’t look away from the window, but he could see Sherlock half-nod, in his peripheral vision. The cab turned in to Baker Street and in a few moments they were once again on the pavement, looking at a building John lived in, that didn’t feel like home.

“Anyway,” he said, in a lighter, decisive tone, “That’s enough death and depression for one afternoon, I think. Care to see if Mrs Hudson’s got any cake in?”

Sherlock smiled without teeth, nodded his head, and followed John inside.


	21. Hopes and Fears

John sent the job application at last. Needed the job (or. . .? If he got paid for going out on the council-estate staged-suicide case with Sherlock, maybe not?). Did not want the job. Wanted a drink at two in the afternoon. Glanced up through his open door into the foyer at every creak or crack he heard. Despite having been repeatedly shut down enough to have given up trying with (quirky!) Sherlock, there was no law against looking. A face like that, of course you look. Heads turned wherever Sherlock went--the cafe, the things-for-the-home shop, taxi drivers, cops and bystanders at the crime scene. Even Sir Paul had tracked Sherlock with his eyes as he paced the room during their meeting.

A date would be nice. If not with Sherlock, with someone. Of course, John came off prickly these days, he knew. He was different since he’d come back, and not just because he was (probably) depressed, (almost certainly) drank too much, was (dangerously) short of funds, and found the slow pace of a small life back in the world so boring it made his teeth itch. His therapist said he would need time to acclimate, that John should make an effort to connect to someone--anyone--in a genuine way. But who did he have anything in common with, now? To find a friend seemed an impossible task, far more difficult even than finding someone who might be open to dinner and an amiable shag.

He scrolled through a list of rooms for rent. The embarrassment of having been turned down when he’d crept up on the topic of taking Sherlock out some time had faded in the last few days, though, and the need to flee seemed less urgent. That must be something like personal growth; he’d have to mention it to his therapist.

The front door rattled and opened, and Sherlock had more shopping bags, kicked the door shut behind him. John called a hello.

“Need a hand?”

“Thank you, no,” Sherlock told him. “So commences two days of recipe testing,” he said, in a tone that made plain he looked forward to the culinary adventure.

“If you need any feedback, you know where to find me,” John grinned at him. Curse his glossy hair that John wanted to shove his fingertips through. His shiny shoes on the long, pretty feet he was always baring. Curse his wrists, too.

Sherlock half-smiled--curse that, too--and nodded tersely. “Cooking is only science, and I’m a scientist.”

John returned the nod, and said, “Best of luck, then.”

Sherlock shifted his bags and John heard bottles rattling. Decided to make a cup of tea. He wondered why Sherlock had not yet gone upstairs. After another half-moment, Sherlock asked, “Do you like paté?”

John frowned and shook his head. “Dunno.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows a bit, then let them settle. “Of course you will,” he said decisively, then vanished.

John did a web-search to confirm what he thought he knew, and decided he likely would not. But who knew? He’d try anything once.


	22. Feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **trope alert!!** **trope alert!!**  
> “hi we’re neighbours and omg are you alright i could smell burning - whoaaa now that’s just embarrassing? step aside i’ll handle this”  
> **trope alert!!** **trope alert!!**

“Everything all right up there?”

The alarm in John’s voice just about matched the shrill tone of the actual alarm sounding from Sherlock’s flat. There was a dank, acrid smell, and his lungs tightened.

“Fine. It’s fine,” came the reply, followed by the jangly clang of a pot lid slamming down rather hard upon its mate. “Nevermind.”

Emerging onto the landing, John encountered a low cloud of pale grey smoke. Sherlock stood by his cooktop wearing an oven glove, plastic eye-protecting goggles hanging just below his chin, and yet another dressing gown, this one wine-coloured. He waved a tea towel at the nearest smoke detector.

John strode toward the small fire extinguisher mounted on the wall, but Sherlock waved him off.

“It’s under control,” he insisted. “I smothered it.”

Glancing around the kitchen John was willing to believe it was not on fire, and left the extinguisher alone in favour of raising the window sash to let some air move. He couldn’t suppress a grin at evidence that Sherlock had found something at which he did not excel.

“Doing some science?” he asked smirkily.

Sherlock grumbled and rolled his eyes. “Cooking.”

John crossed his arms over his chest. “And how’s that going?”

Sherlock pursed his lips and transferred the offending pot from the cooker to the sink, turned the cold tap on it and raised a new cloud, this one of steam. After a silence that would have been awkward were John not so amused, Sherlock said huffily. “I’m making jam.”

“I don’t think you are.”

Sherlock ignored him. “I read the recipe just seven weeks ago. There’s no way I misremembered. There must be something wrong with the equipment.”

“Right,” John nodded, his smile widening until he reined it in. “Just seven weeks.”

Sherlock was clearly used to people doubting him and readily replied, “I have a foolproof memory-organisation tool called a--” he huffed again and shook his head. “Nevermind. I remember things.” He began banging about in his cupboards, replacing the sauce pot with another, slightly smaller one, and reaching for a glass cannister full of sugar.

“You’re in luck,” John told him, and reached into his jeans’ hip pocket for his phone. “Because I also have a foolproof memory tool thing called _the internet_. Where did you find the recipe?”

“That busty one whose father was in the government. My brother knew her at school.”

John laughed, then frowned. “I know the one you mean. What’s her name? Damn. It’s not as if you can just search for _jam recipe beautiful big-breasted_ \-- Oh. No. Here it is.” John set his phone on the worktop and Sherlock began measuring out the sugar. He looked livid.

After another few moments John finally gave up on any attempts to repress his amusement and said, “By the way, you’re lucky it’s not you that’s on fire, with your gown flapping about. Take that off. And put on some shoes; what if you drop a knife?” John invaded Sherlock’s space and took over the preparations for the jam. Sherlock looked cowed and shed his robe, then crossed the room and slipped his feet into a pair of his million-pound designer wingtips. John watched out the corner of his eye. “Where’s the candy thermometer?” John demanded, looking for it inside the previous pan.

“I was going by eye,” Sherlock said.

“No one can tell a temperature by eye,” John told him, and Sherlock opened his mouth to protest but John cut him off. “Not even a genius. Maybe go downstairs; Mrs Hudson probably has one.”

Sherlock, strangely obedient, nodded and started out to the landing. John zeroed out the kitchen scale and weighed the berries.


	23. Nightmare Before Christmas

John woke with a sucking sob, jolting to attention, wet eyes wide in the dark, seeking landmarks to ground him.

The window. The armchair. Door shut and locked. His legs and arms and the bed beneath him and the ceiling of a tiny London flat over him.

He panted himself toward normal. Reached for the lamp and squinted against the sudden brightness. It might be midnight or just before dawn. He shivered; he wasn’t cold.

Footsteps overhead, the creaking of old floors. He didn’t think, didn’t talk himself out of it. Pulled the quilt off the bed as he went, feet into slippers, wrapped himself and went upstairs.

Sherlock poured him tea and they talked about the city, and other cities they’d visited or longed to visit. Sherlock’s cases. John’s surgeries. Favourite books and films and foods. John never learned whether it was midnight or just before dawn, and Sherlock never made him feel a dead-dark nighttime visit was anything out of the ordinary.


	24. Peace

Sherlock’s party was sparsely populated with only a haggardly handsome cop (”DI Lestrade, best man at the Yard.” “Nice to meet you, John. Greg.” “Mm, I don’t think so.”), a pretty coroner (”Molly Hooper. She lets me abuse corpses now and then.” “Sherlock, you mustn’t keep saying that.”), Mrs Hudson (”Don’t you look handsome! Be a dear and pour me some punch?”), and John.

The flat was still a stunning showpiece, dressed to the nines in holiday finery and lit with festive fairy lights and the mantel full of battery-powered, flickering candles. On the table John had once thought hopelessly cluttered, beside trays of meticulous, bite-size wonders--lamb curry on rounds of naan bread, smoked salmon salad finger sandwiches, and tiny mince tarts, to name a few--there stood a huge crystal punch bowl with cups hanging off its edge. The hand-lettered card in front on the table identified it as “Spiced Whisky Punch”; there were blocks of ice afloat, with apple slices and cinnamon sticks frozen inside.

When Sherlock offered John a crostini spread with chicken liver paté and balsamic-glazed onions, he accepted, keeping his doubts to himself, and found it astoundingly delicious. Through the course of the evening, he returned to the tray three times, for more.

In the kitchen the table groaned with sweets (including jam thumbprint biscuits John gave himself at least half the credit for), the two centrepieces being an elegant, nearly flat bowl full of fruit, beautifully arranged; and a gigantic steamed Christmas pudding that smelled invitingly of booze and spice. To accompany the desserts, Sherlock offered tea with mulling spices, or cappuccino with foamed milk from a sleek metal contraption, and sprinklings of cinnamon or chocolate.

Sherlock moved from person to person, station to station, offering food and drink and conversation, gliding like a dancer in a wide, wobbly figure-eight around the flat. About an hour into the party, he put a pause to the background of John’s atomic-cocktail holiday playlist and took up his violin--played just long enough that his guests felt entertained and even a bit spoilt, but not so long that anyone became restless. John stood by the mantel and couldn’t help but peruse the remaining items on Sherlock’s wishlist, still hanging there as part of the decor, still stabbed in place with a folding knife. He was slightly stunned to find his snowman sketch on its little sticky note had been framed and set on the mantel as part of the wintry scene Sherlock had created there.

As the party wound to a close, Sherlock went on being the most gracious host imaginable, helping the ladies with their coats; pressing pre-arranged, gift-wrapped boxes of leftover treats into the hands of his departing guests; insisting the party had been perfect because of its intimacy--no one needs more than three friends--and declining dinner invitations with assurances he had other plans.

John felt himself lingering, admiring Sherlock in several new ways, wanting to stay in the beautiful space a while, disinclined to return to his room where all that awaited him for Christmas Eve supper was a packet of HobNobs and a fifth of Scotch. When Sherlock announced that he had plans, though, John knew he should not overstay his welcome.

“Well, this has been just fantastic,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Thank you for having me. Can I help clean up a bit?” An offer to pack away the leavings was good evidence he was in no hurry to depart Sherlock’s company.

“No--thank you--I wouldn’t ask.” Sherlock’s posture was languid, his mouth turned up softly at the corners. “However, I’m glad you’re still here.” He went into a kitchen cupboard and brought out a bottle. “I’d like to drink to another successful Christmas drinks party, and to do so alone would be too sad.”

“Quite sad, yeah,” John agreed with a grin. As Sherlock poured, John picked up a jam biscuit and ate it in a single bite, humming pleasure at its crumbly sweetness. Noticing the bottle in Sherlock’s hand, John quickly swallowed and asked in astonishment, “Is that a Macallan 25?”

Sherlock smiled. “Indeed.” He passed a glass to John, who eagerly, almost reverently, wafted it beneath his chin, letting the scent find him.

“To your lovely party,” John said, and raised his glass. Sherlock’s kissed it with a ringing tone of crystal on crystal, and they sipped. John imagined he might be half-hard over it; it was magnificent.

“Very nice,” Sherlock commented. “Better than the eighteen?”

John let go an incredulous laugh. “It’s better than just about anything I’ve ever put in my mouth.”

Sherlock looked pleased. “It was that package of mine you got. Fragile, from Scotland.”

“Oh, was it?”

“Well, you mentioned wanting something better than the eighteen.”

He said it so casually, as if it were usual to order an 800-pound bottle of whiskey just to appease one’s downstairs neighbour. John felt his ears heating up.

“You shouldn’t have. . .” John said, not knowing what else to say.

“You worry about your drinking,” Sherlock said plainly, out of nowhere. “But you’re not an alcoholic.”

“Not yet,” John joked grimly, wondering why he was going along with a line of discussion that was none of Sherlock’s business.

“If you were, it would already have taken you down,” Sherlock said. John shrugged a bit, had a feeling Sherlock was right. He’d have to look at it some other time. “You use your family’s penchant for alcohol abuse as a way to connect with them, as family togetherness was never a strength. But you’ll never get there, so you should strongly consider just enjoying a drink now and then and not wallowing in angst over it. That’s another sort of abuse.”

John’s mouth hung open, and his glass hung in the air in front of his chest. He wasn’t sure why he was allowing Sherlock to talk to him in such a fashion, as if they were that sort of friends. Or as if John was a science experiment Sherlock was reporting on. He sipped the whiskey again and put the topic aside. Anyway, he was distracted by another odd thing that was going on just then.

“Is that Wonderful Christmas Time playing over and over?” he asked.

“Paul McCartney,” Sherlock replied, a non-explanation.

“Yes. . .but,” John began.

“You like him. It’s his only Christmas song.”

“True, I like him. But this is not just the worst Christmas song of all time, it may be the worst song, generally.”

“Untrue, a pair of students used an algorithm to create the world’s most annoying song and this is not it.”

John laughed. His glass was empty so he set it on the kitchen table. They were stood there rather awkwardly, with table between them. John looked at the steamed pudding with just a slice or two missing. _A good ol’ boozy steamed pudding. Cappuccino. The framed snowman sketch. A Macallan 18? Sure, if you haven’t got anything better._

He gulped. Sherlock was studying him.

“I’m about to ask a weird question,” John said. “And if I’m wrong I’m going to be so completely humiliated, I’ll fling myself out that window there.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. Sherlock tilted his head, lifted his eyebrows questioningly.

John cleared his throat.

“Did you make this party for me?”

He stepped forward, and Sherlock looked embarrassed and lowered his head and stepped back.

“Not entirely,” Sherlock replied. “I was going to have the party; I always do. But. . .” He shrugged.

“No, go on,” John encouraged, and he felt something flickering up inside his belly, a little flame of something that might be wonderful, but he didn’t want to rush.

Sherlock fiddled with the steamed-milk contraption, at the edge of the kitchen, nearest the sitting room. “I love Christmas,” Sherlock said. “Always have. I have always tried to make a beautiful, perfect holiday. Decorating, sending notes, a party with lovely food and drink and tolerable people.”

John hummed a laugh; food and drink must be lovely but people, it seemed, need only be tolerable. John stepped closer again. Sherlock’s throat was pale pink above his open shirt collar; John longed to stroke the velvet lapel of his jacket.

“I’ve never had anyone to make a beautiful, perfect Christmas _for_ ,” Sherlock told him, his voice confessionally low. After a half-beat, he added, “It was an experiment.”

“No,” John contradicted, and he couldn’t stop himself grinning.

“No,” Sherlock acquiesced.

“We went shopping for new bed sheets,” John prompted, still piecing it all together, Sherlock’s quirky wooing of him over the course of 24 days.

“For the upstairs bedroom. Your flat has no kitchen or bath, and it’s damp. We would both save on rent.”

“If?”

“If you moved in here. With me.” Sherlock’s gaze was unwavering. It was an outrageous request. John wanted desperately to say yes.

John flicked his gaze up above Sherlock’s head. He was stood in the doorway between the two rooms, and there was a sprig of ribbon-tied mistletoe pinned to the center of its frame. “Look at that,” John said, and reached for Sherlock’s hand, and stepped at last as close as he’d longed to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you catch the 16 references to previous ficlets?
> 
> Thank you for joining me this season; these have been a lot of fun to write and I have enjoyed reading all yr comments! Merry Christmas to all of you, and best wishes for a new year that brings you everything you wish for.


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